The Long Road Home
by JohnnyFrost
Summary: One survivor of Yellow Squadron prepares to return home after the squadron's defeat at Farbanti[extended version]


September 19, 2005

Farbanti, Erusea

_"Dammit, thirteen," he thought, "Honorable stand. What a foolish idea! But he wouldn't listen."_

The cold air was passing over, around, and under him; it caught his parachute silk and slowly dropped. For a fighter pilot, the parachute was not just a survival method...but a obvious sign of luck. The war was over for him and the rest of the squadron; not to mention the rest of the continent and it's armies. For those who died, the war would go on forever. The war had been a long, arduous one. For nearly two years, the continent had seen the dawn and twilight of a great military power. But now Erusea was a mere shadow of it's former self. Farbanti was totally dead...even more than it was before. Then _he_ could be seen. That fancy F-15 ACTIVE he had was passing over his head in a rather arrogant fashion. For the man in the silk it was an embarrassment to have lost to that plane. He'd bested three others. But at least the pilot was a decent one. Regardless of any respect he had for such a skilled pilot, white-hot rage filled him. But that quickly went away...perhaps Miliardo was angry at himself more.

This is Major Miliardo Erasmus. His name was a mystery to ISAF, but his fight suit and patches were not. He'd only been in Yellow Squadron for five months. He was the one of the only pilots with much needed combat experience. Most of the others were fresh out of training or only had a few hours of flight time. At twenty-seven, he was one of the older pilots. The oldest was Yellow Thirteen at thirty. Erasmus was the second highest scoring ace in Erusea, and he wasn't even in Yellow Squadron until Yellow Four was killed. He led the illustrious Black Squadron out of his hometown of Mareno some nine hundred miles from Farbanti for two years. Before that he'd worked his way up from a rookie to flight lead to squadron leader. Over the short years of war, he'd racked up fifty-four kills. That was only twenty shy of Yellow Thirteen's total before he died. Now he was the aces of aces, but he did not realize it at the time.

His short, black hair remains still beneath his helmet. His rather plain pale looks sit in front of a pair of pale green eyes. But these were very good eyes. He was said to have the best vision in the squadron. He was not one you'd expect to fight for a fascist nation. He was born in Osea, long before the years of chaos. He'd moved there with his parents as a child. He was born in a rather affluent family. However, the only true way to make oneself a success in the expanding country was an illustrious military career. He was very skilled, intelligent, and notoriously ambitious. He set his aims very high. He had the desire to be the best pilot there was. So he became a pilot and worked up the ranks. By 2003, he'd cut his teeth on an F-5E and was put in a plane that would see him through until April 2005: the F-16C.

However, he was passed over for the elite Yellow squadron time and time again no matter what he did in the early days of combat. But squadron command was not a undesirable job. There were many skilled pilots, and was skill Erasmus had in spades. He picked off enemy after enemy, until he arrived at thirty-five kills. He was also a potent night-fighter, as seventeen of those thirty-five were done at night. Then...bittersweet luck hit him.

Four years prior, he'd married a young woman named Elle. Elle often bragged about her older sister, an air force pilot: an Air Force pilot that commonly went by...Yellow Four. And to think he was replacing her! He never told Elle the full truth about the events. He never did about any of his combat actions. He'd simply embellish or simply be terse and skip the details.

Both Elle and Yellow Four were from very impoverished backgrounds. Yellow Four was very ambitious, and had little time for her sister. Elle was deaf from the day she was born. There was only constant distance between the two. Yellow Four only saw Elle as a bump in the way of her ambition. When Yellow Four began her training, she never spoke or wrote to Elle. Yet she still cried when Yellow Four was killed. Erasmus knew this; he got the letter from her...soaked with her tears. Miliardo was quick to notice that there was also gulf between him and Thirteen. One could not find two different people.

Thirteen was more about classical dog fighting. Erasmus was a hit and run fighter that would plunge into furballs and do as much as possible then retreat to repeat the process. Thirteen would never leave the fight until the job was finished. He hated the psychological games Erasmus liked to play. Thirteen was a consistent character; no matter if he was in the air or on the ground, he never changed. Erasmus was a pragmatist. Thirteen loved guitars, Erasmus loved violins. Thirteen believed approaching air battles like a knight before a duel. Erasmus approached his like a chess game. Thirteen felt compassion toward his enemies. Erasmus felt no little emotion about them. Thirteen lived and breathed aircraft technicalities. Erasmus was amicable and would openly talk about his career, family and such.

Then there was that Mobius One. Thirteen wanted nothing more than to have a duel with him. Erasmus did not hate Mobius One; he was just a sheer angering annoyance. He'd caused his wife a great deal of distress, he had shot down several of his squadron members, and he never liked how everyone lifted him up like he was a god. Not even Thirteen had that kind of aura. Erusea was hesitant to glorify single heroes. It wasn't really those reasons, it was mostly that he wanted to shoot down Mobius One himself. Pride. He wanted the title. But he noticed over time that his ambition began to fade...but now his pride had come back full swing for some reason. Perhaps it was joy at survival that jogged his pride once again.

_There is no honor in the dogfight._ He'd say that quite often. It stemmed from his annoyance with Thirteen's chivalrous nature in and out the cockpit. To Miliardo, a dogfight was what it was...a ultra-fast life or death battle of will and reflexes. There was no time to be benevolent. _It's you or him, nothing else._

But, there was also his general detachment from his country's will to fight to the bitter end. There was honestly no point in fighting on. Erasmus was no fool. He could see the end coming. But the others were determined to fight on. His experience was respected, but he eventually became alienated from the rest. It was mostly the new pilots under his command. Most did not take him seriously. This was distressing since he had some friends that were already members of Yellow Squadron before they were transferred out. He had no doubt they would have agreed with him. But they were all dead or captured now. But regardless, he had fulfilled his ambitions; then there was the most important thing: he was alive.

There was a soft green field, a strange alien place in the dead city. He hit the ground and softly rolled in the grass. It was like sliding into home plate in his favorite sport of baseball. Erasmus was not an arrogant person but he was very prideful; he'd be damned if he were to suffer the ignominy of imminent capture. He was going to at least make the enemy work for it. Maybe.

"Wonderful landing." he said.

He took a look back on his career as he walked away from the city. Fifty kills, five hundred combat missions including fighter interception, search and rescue, long and short range interdiction, close air support, and recon. He'd flown and F-16 for about three-hundred and fifty of those five hundred sorties. He always kept a detailed record of his kills, including the types of planes he shot down. He'd shot down three F-5s, two Mig-21s, three A-6s, six F-16s, four F/A-18s, one Mirage 2000, five Mig-29s, four A-10s, eighteen F-14s, three Tornados, two F-15Es, and three F-15 Actives.

There were no enemies here. The place was quiet, serene, and far removed from the smoke filled capital. He never liked Farbanti anyway.

"Well, it's only nine hundred miles to home. I could use some exercise. Ah, who am I kidding?" he thought, "...hell with it."

He then turned around and walked to the city. It was as well he did, since there were no cars there and there was practically nothing else for miles. At first, he figured ISAF would love to have him in custody. He was probably the last of his squadron from their point of view. Of course, the other Yellows were guarding that pointless Megalith weapon. No doubt that they would suffer a similar fate as Thirteen, Four and the others. It was inevitable. Erasmus remembered the debacle in San Salvacion. He tried to lead the Yellows effectively, but he lost many squadron members. One of them was his personal protégé, Lieutenant Andross. It was a shame. _He would have been a great ace._ He'd say that over and over. But why was it merely him? Many had come into the squadrons he fought in; many never came back from their sorties. The names returned to him even now.

Mobius One suddenly passed over him again.

"I probably have to thank you." he said to the sky.

His country was in shambles. He was not the warmonger some people were, but it did not matter in the end. He was alive and that was all he needed. As he walked toward the smoking city, he saw a ISAF APC waiting on him. It had only been a mere five minutes. However, it didn't seem like they expected him. Some soldiers were outside the vehicle; they were probably reloading or simply taking a break. It was good enough for him, but there was a shadow of doubt. As he came to within fifty yards of the vehicles, guns quickly swerved and as if on instinct Erasmus raised his hands.

"So far, so good. They haven't shot me yet." he said quietly.

What happened next though was not even close to what he expected. As he approached one of the soldiers, another stepped out from behind him...and made his fist into a ball.

WHAM!

Things suddenly took a turn for the worst. It was so quick; a pilot that was once renowned for sniffing out deception and was fast to react to situations was surprised by such a savage action. But the words heard next, although faded and echoed, explained it all.

"You bastard! I lost two brothers to you sons of-"

WHAM!

What had happened? This was certainly not what he expected, that is running into a group of _vengeful_ ISAF soldiers. A bit of hostility was to be expected, but certainly not like this. A civilized enemy was suddenly a pretense. Or was this the exception to the rule? He could not be sure. All Erasmus knew was that he wasn't going home anytime soon. His vision was faded, he could feel his own blood, and the pain was still stinging. But he was completely taken aback, and could find nothing to say in response. He felt himself being picked up violently off the ground.

All around him were soldiers, some seven of them shouting things like "fascist pig" and other, viler words. These men were overpowering compared to Erasmus' thin body build and height of 5'7". There was no point in trying to outfight them. His extreme pride quickly melted away, and he became just another defeated soldier.

_This has been a very bad week._ It was all he could think of, and all he could say. He thought it was the dumbest thing he ever said. For the first time in his life he felt helpless. The city was burning, and he realized his pride was dreadfully misplaced. Nothing was left in the streets, the civilians having fled days ago. Their leaders had mostly fled as well. The march to the mass holding areas were countless Erusean troops were was the proverbial "walk of shame".

Then there was his wife back home. Elle suddenly entered his mind. If the estimation was correct, he'd be a father today. He had apparently taken full advantage of one of the few furloughs he'd received back in early January. Aces that reached their twenty-fifth kill were given a three day leave. He never did get the one he should have received upon his fiftieth kill. He and only four others, including Thirteen, managed to reach _Expertes_ status.

But this meant nothing. Unfortunately, he was still far from home and a defeated airman. But there was something to smile about; and it was this thought that made him do just that. It also caught the attention of his captors who shot him dirty looks.

"_To them, I'm just another arrogant fascist bastard." That's what their probably thinking. If they only knew my goals were the same as theirs. These guys don't care really. They got their own families and such to get to. These idiots don't even realize it's a win-win situation for us both. I wonder about that kid...what does he or she look like? And to think I tried so hard not to think about it and focus on the mission. Okay, these guys are getting impatient. I might as well get this charade over with. _

Miliardo fell in and was led to a place he'd probably spend a few weeks. A place where for the first time, no one he knew was there. Except for a few cases...they were all dead. There was Josephine and Wiezman, both brand new pilots in Yellow Squadron. Wiezman was downed over Los Canas but managed to bail out. Josephine, who probably would have done as well as the original Yellow Four, broke both her legs after a landing gear malfunction. Two days later, ISAF overran their base outside the city and were forced to leave the wounded there. It was one of several times that Miliardo was disgusted by senior command. Even though they'd receive decent treatment, it was more the simple principle of the fact.

Then there were the other new pilots.

Miliardo was the only pilot in Yellow Squadron that was married at the time. Some pilots of the original squadron were, but these "kids" were coming in full of fire and with nothing to lose. He'd resented High Command's decision to transfer most of the experienced pilots out of Yellow Squadron. It was a deadly arrangement. By July, seven pilots were killed in accidents or were shot down on their first or second mission. It was a very depressing time for the squadron. A new pilot had only a fourteen percent chance of survival. After the first three pilots died, Miliardo never again remembered the names of the new pilots...he expected them to die within the week.

The new pilots were put in stripped down Su-37s. One pilot was shot down as he took off on his very first training mission; Miliardo never forgot that young man's screams as he went down in flames. Another tried to fly under a bridge with disastrous results. A female pilot was accidentally shot down by her own wingman. She ejected and landed in the mountains. When they found her several days later, it was determined she'd broken her legs and arms in the ejection...then froze to death. Two pilots were killed when one miscalculated a victory roll after his first kill and smashed into the other plane. It wasn't just in Yellow Squadron, but all over the air force; young pilots were dying at an alarming rate. The teething problems went away in late June with the addition of Jean-Louis and other young, competent, and fanatical leadership figures. But destruction was its destiny; destruction and disgrace.

The Yellow Squadron's base was just outside of San Salvacion. He'd fought in this country in 2003, when the war was in it's infancy. He was surprised how much resistance came from this particular country, which was neutral at the start of the war. But "neutral" was a moot term. It was one of the first countries taken by Erusea, and it opened the opportunity to take control of Stonehenge. The problem was the misconception of the war. It was not just a plan for expansion, but it was to counter the small nations that were already hostile to Erusea long before the war even began, long before the asteroids, long before the Belkan War. The situation only spiraled out of control with Stonehenge. Eruesan troops were scattered all over Usea. It was only a matter of time before that weakness exposed itself...and it did.

For Yellow Squadron, there was no purpose other than to shoot down aircraft. No longer did they hold the respect they did. No one ever looked at them the same again. Yellow Squadron never again got the top tier equipment as it had to be farmed out over the air force (which was one of the contributing factors in some of the mechanical failures in the squadron)Yet, even with all this, everyone still fought on.

But it was obviously over as Miliardo fell in with the mob of surrendering soldiers to march to the holding areas; a flight career apparently over for good. He did see several pilots in the large group but they were obviously exhausted and despondent; they were young men with the occasional woman scattered amongst the crowd. No one was in formation, just hundreds upon hundreds marching; they were resigned to defeat.

October 8, 2005

It was funny how quick his own people were catering to the ISAF soldiers. Perhaps it was merely a facade. They were trying to put on a happy face about a war they'd lost. Some of the ISAF people made a maximum effort to make them drive home the point they were a defeated nation. They acted as if everyone supported the war.

_How could possibly delude themselves into thinking that?_

The government was so out of touch with reality, yet none of the ISAF personnel wanted to realize this. It may have been that they were from a country somewhat hostile to Erusea. But these men were not interested in talking to mere prisoners; no chance of figuring out where they were from. Perhaps it was the Megalith incident now dominating the rumors that had something to do with the strained relations.

As for the POWs, a quick release was somewhat difficult. There were thousands upon thousands of POWs all over the country. Major Erasmus was lucky. He was held in a small camp near the Farbanti airport with some 140 other pilots in a series of fenced off areas. As the senior officer in one area, he was the head of this particular area. Despite being roughed up in his first encounter with ISAF troops, he'd recovered from his relatively minor wounds.

People would invariably ask questions like: "So what was it like in Yellow Squadron? What did you do? How does it feel now that you've been defeated? What are you going to do now?" Before, the half hearted answers were given to total strangers. But at this moment, it was to someone much more familiar.

"So what was he like? You know...Thirteen?" one man asked.

"Gui, as much as everyone talked about him even when were in Black Squadron, I'd think you'd know. The guy was exactly like everyone said he was. This...knightly figure of sorts. He was a good guy, but he'd get on my damn nerves sometimes though. Let me give you an example. Back in early May we were flying above Nodark, just north of San Salvacion. A flight of enemy planes show up. There was a whole pack of them, maybe 10 or 12. So we're arguing about the best way to take these guys. There's the other three with us. Now usually, we would simply break to attack in a regular situation; no different than when we were flying together. This other wingmen were brand new. They're not ready for a pitched fight. So we go in and I shoot down two bandits then leave with the others. But Thirteen he just stays there. He wants to finish the battle. The other planes cut and ran when I took out the leader. He kinda let me have it when we got back. He did not technically outrank me. But I was concerned about the new pilots. All of which died over a period of five weeks. They could barely keep their planes in the air. In fact one guy's plane was wavering so bad he actually hit a tree on a mission. What a waste."

"I know what you mean. We had a lot of that when you left. My god! At one point, we had an sixty percent attrition rate...from non-combat accidents! No wonder we lost the central highlands." Giuseppe said.

This is former Major Giuseppe Galliope. He is a blonde, tall, blue eyed man; he was the "glamour boy" of Black Squadron in his neophyte years. Galliope, Erasmus, and only a handful in the camp were the "old" soldiers. They'd fought in the early years of war and made it all the way to the end. Their combat records were impressive. They were the elite. It was rare to find a pilot in that camp over the age of twenty-five at best. The grand majority were poorly trained twenty and twenty-one year olds. The other "old" soldiers were either in POW camps on the east coast or dead. Erusea had undoubtedly one of the best trained air forces in the world, now it was a shell of it's former self.

"You never did say how you got shot down." asked Erasmus.

"Oh right. It was rather embarrassing. It was at Los Canas. We were flying near the mountains just south of the city when all of the sudden..." Galliope began.

Their casual conversation was cut off by three individuals. There were the usual two guards and a female officer Erasmus had seen on occasion. Her visit was the key to freedom as she had the list of who had been processed and could be sent home. She was also one of the few ISAF personnel that didn't have a bitter disposition. Without saying a word, she handed processing papers to the two men and looked at them with approval. The red stamp was the ticket out. On it was a number, in Erasmus's case it was eighty-one. That number corresponded to the city the pilot or soldier live. They were from all over; Mareno, Rachae, Mont-Caten, the list went on. Most envied the pilots that lived in Farbanti itself. But a ticket home was a ticket home.

"There's an assembly area outside. It will take you to Mareno." she said.

"Um...thank you." Erasmus replied.

Erasmus and Guiseppe hurriedly gathered the few items of their possession and headed out. Erasmus stopped and took a brisk look back. Inside were a number of young pilots who'd simply been lucky to be alive. One stood at attention near the exit as they left and gave a brisk salute. Erasmus simply smiled, returned it, and walked out.

As both men walked out and saw the amount of activity that was there, it struck them both as strange that they noticed their former enemy going out of its way to get them home. That's where everyone wanted to be, home. Whether they were the ribbon, or Yellow, or Black, or White, or Tango, or Halo, or Oscar, or infantry private or platoon leader, it was all the same. The horrors of war were over. Now everyone and everything was at peace.

"Let's see. We're now war veterans, it's 900 miles home, you have a kid you haven't met yet, I have one I haven't seen in a year, we got a free ride, but we don't have any cigars to smoke." said Guiseppe.

"I suppose, and I don't smoke." said Miliardo.

"Why so glum? You know their going to be making military history in other countries and it gonna do shows about guys like us. We're gonna be interviewed, get put on TV and everyone will know us."

"Yeah, but I didn't join the service for that. I joined because it was the only thing I knew how to do. It was the only thing I wanted to do. Now, finish your story. I heard rumors you ejected into a sewage treatment plant."

"No! I mean...ye..no...okay so I did. But it's not what exactly happened..."

Miliardo laughed for the first time in months as both boarded the bus to head home. Upon entry, a man handed the two men a short letter. It was addressed to the soldiers, sailors, and airmen of Erusea. The mood was an eye opening change for the men. It no longer seemed like a repressive, right-wing government. Miliardo was always upset about the fact that senior officers were almost never seen. Yet this letter from the government...

"...you have all fought like tigers. You shared heat and cold, victory, defeat, and death. But now is the time to return home and rebuild..."

_What is this? Some kind of war movie? They never visited us, never gave these dramatic speeches to us. You're going to war and that's it._

Most of the other young soldiers on the bus were ecstatic to be going home. But a silent since of stoicism filled Miliardo. Sure he was going home to his family. Then it was all those others that didn't make it; soldiers that fought to the bitter end. It filled his mind all along that long road home, and a long road home it was. The sun began to set as the journey began. Within the hour, the city of Farbanti was a speck on the horizon as vanished into the twilight. The moon made it's appearance over the dry, arid areas of Erusea. The stars seemed infinite and innocent; they were objects of natural beauty no longer obstructed by city lights. There was the bumpy road, partial insomnia, and his friend's constant rambling that made sleep along the way impossible. Soon he would arrive in his hometown, Mareno, and would finally bask in the sunny haze of the gentle morning for the first time in nearly nine months.

October 9, 2010

The city of Mareno was virtually untouched by the war. ISAF soldiers prowled its streets in a blatant show of domination. Planes flew over head; ISAF planes showing their complete air supremacy. His status in the military had earned him great privileges, including a bigger house than he needed. Even though they were defeated, it was obvious the best career choice was the military. Erusea was far from the extremism of Belka and Verusa, although they were still (although no longer) a fascist nation. But the average person does not think of these things. Someone has to defend the country. Someone has to protect the people. Who is one to question that? So there was little animosity back home. It was a civilized age.

So it was that Miliardo found himself back home after nearly nine continuous months of combat and almost three years of war. He looked much older now; even older than his twenty-seven years of age. Stress, fatigue, monotony and death had worn on him. Elle rushed from the house, her long black hair blowing in the October wind and nearly tripping trying to get to him. He could clearly see the strain on her. No longer did she seem the vibrant farmer's daughter he married four years ago. Her sister's death still weighed heavily on her shoulders. But even as the two came into each other's embrace, she could finally see the strain in his eyes. He'd replaced her sister in Yellow Squadron but she knew from the countless letters he had written her that many had passed through the ranks of his squadrons. He'd seen thirty of his fellow airmen shot down or be killed. But perhaps it was for Thirteen, a man he loved to hate. Perhaps he really did admire him and his differences.

No words were needed between the two. As his lips brushed hers, there was only the thought that even amongst the pain of the past there remained that comforting shell of love the two retreated two in times like this. She was a freckled faced, blue eyed ball of energy despite her inability to hear anything. When he talked to other people, he affectionately referred to her as "Dot". As the two came into the house, Elle ran upstairs. Miliardo found himself looking at the wall. On the wall was everything he'd accumulated in four to five years; his medals, pictures, even the rare newspaper clipping. Then there was the only picture from his days in Yellow Squadron. Thirteen, Six, Twenty and Four were the only experienced pilots left after the squadron's purge. But there was also one other person in the picture. A little boy that Thirteen had taken under his wing. He said he befriended him when they invaded San Salvacion in mid-2003. But he never learned what happened to him.

The kid was an enigma to Miliardo. Thirteen spoke highly of him, which was ironic since he told me the boy came from San Salvacion. Apparently, he felt just as devastated at Yellow Four's death as everyone else was. That boy was also always hanging around that young girl at the tavern in Old Towne, Miliardo remembered. Thirteen regretted leaving the kid in the city when it fell to ISAF forces. Erasmus had much more to regret; he regretted even leading the mission to protect the city. He regretted leaving Josephine behind and he never finding out if Tsabo got out his plane. He regretted not being able to save Andross. But those thoughts were once again put out of his mind as the steps could be heard; they were the steps of a special someone bringing along another special someone for the ride.

Elle emerged from the upstairs with a little baby boy. Miliardo had finally laughed for the first time in months just the previous day. For the first time in about a year, he became jubilant. He was staring at an almost carbon copy of himself. Suddenly, the trials and tribulations of his wartime life slowly went away. The bombs, missiles, SAM alerts, the cries for help, the calls for air support, the hundreds of exploding planes he'd seen, and the constant frightened voices telling them that the "ribbon" was in view were no more. It was if nothing changed. To Miliardo, it was like being a lost child in the forest that finally found his way back home. As the two exchanged signs and laughed as a family was now whole.

Then again, Miliardo also belonged in the sky. Whatever new government was established was going to need people to defend it. That was all he thought of when he joined at first. But not right now. He belonged home now just like everyone else, even the "ribbon". He was probably at home too with his wife or his girlfriend, since he never assumed he was a withdrawn personality like Thirteen. Then, like a bolt of lightning, the strangest thought entered his mind.

_What the hell was the ribbon for?_


End file.
